Page 42 of Veil of Blood and Bone

At least I’m breathing, standing, speaking without a wobble.

This place is usually quiet until the old ladies come in to sell their older romances and mysteries they’ve been reading and swap them out for the subsequent set.

Whoever the stranger is, with his tattoo of Perthro, he isn’t the type interested in either genre. What are the chances of seeing two hot guys in this town in two days?

Unheard of.

“I’ve got it, pretty monster.” He reshelves the tome in his hand and moves ahead to the next one.

What the actual hell?

“It’s generally polite to ask for a person’s name before you dispense with frankly insulting pet names,” I say.

He turns his back on me and plucks another book from the shelf, trailing his thumb over the gold lettering. “Is it? I hadn’t heard.”

“Then you don’t get out much.”

I trail him through the winding aisle, the novel still clutched in his hand and the rune in mine. Caught in his wake.

“Oh, trust me, sometimes they let me out of my cage.” He flashes me a white-toothed smirk. “And when they do, I like to...read.”

He tosses the tome over his shoulder, and I catch it automatically. The title, something about obscure Norse poems that Barnes picked up a few months ago, was mis-shelved. I tuck it under my arm as the stranger moves to the next shelf.

“You don’t strike me as the reading type,” I reply.

Shit, he’s attractive. Too delicious for me to indulge in light flirtation. But Perthro, and the man’s smile, snag me.

He crouches, his elbows on his knees, and glances up at me as he slides a book home. “What type do I strike you as being?”

My answer is immediate. “Trouble.”

Dark laughter rumbles from him and vibrates up my legs toward my chest, which threatens to cave in the longer I stare. Men are not allowed to be so handsome, are they? This one is Trouble. The capitalization is majorly warranted.

“Who are you?”

He sniffs, winks, the K-Pop demon of my fangirl dreams in black and jeans. Earrings decorate the whorls of his ears. “I saw you fight yesterday.”

I stiffen. “What?”

Shit. He was at the festival?

“You had good form,” he continues without a direct answer. “Have you ever been trained?”

This guy was there? It makes sense, I guess. A lot of tourists come to town for the event, to get a taste of small town charm and pomp and circumstances. This year, the tidal wave of vacationers and sightseers brought in some fine looking men. At least I get to stare at him even though his answers are a little weird.

“Not unless you count self-defense classes at the Y,” I murmur with only half the truth.

He smirks, his glance long and his eyes dark. “You have. You don’t remember. You will soon.”

I cross my arms over my chest, bristling. “Oh yeah?”

Rather than respond, he shelves the book in his hand and stands. Up, and up, lean muscle and a killer scent. The dude smells like shadows at dusk and pine.

“Really.”

“Since we’re living in a fantasy world, then I’ll probably also remember how to teleport. Right?” I lift my chin to meet his gaze and my eyes narrow.

“If anyone can do it, pretty monster, it would be you.”